I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

It's wonderful to see
The mountains, strong and tall
An eagle taking flight
Or the colors in the fall

But why do we not notice
The beauty in the little things?
Things that we see every day
That are simple, yet amazing

A flat field of grass...
Makes my heart run free
Even a single breath of wind
Stirs the life within me

So when you dream of jungles
But wake to find just one tree
Look closer and you'll realize
There's beauty in simplicity

i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.

What if every little thought
That lives inside your head
Instead of hiding away in there
Was spoken out, was said?

Would you be embarrassed?
Would you hate your mouth?
Would you rather be mute
Than let the truth come out?

What if every little thing
That people thought of you
Instead of being tucked away
Was heard, was listened to?

Would you be ashamed?
Would you cover your ears?
Would you rather be deaf
Than let the truth come near?

And what if every image
That passes through your thoughts
Was freed from its prison
To roam until it rots?

Would you be disgusted?
Would you look away?
Would you rather be blind
Than see your thoughts at play?

He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

The urge for what's next
Has blinded you what's already there!
Don't you realize
All the way in you're dead!
This impractical imbecile you've become
Nothing seems right
To what's already been done!

Seems like you've stopped thinking over.
May not be able to put in words
On how you feel,
but all I know is
we cling to memories of what we had
not blindly seeking on everything
to what's about to come!

I'd like to see your poetry
I mean, truly see your work
The way you choose to dot your i's
Tells me what that dot is worth
Though, words still hold their meaning, I know that there is more -
Beyond our monotype - a sight to see, the truth adorn